The omelette always tells the story
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- June 25, 2018
- 1446
Find me the dirtiest dive or seediest diner and set me in the back booth. This is where the best food is. I remember going to truck stops with the family when we were young, easily accessible with good food and even bigger portions. The big booth would swallow us up, and we would order up burgers or spaghetti, big plates of pancakes and hash browns.
Waitresses in polyester dresses would take our orders with a smile, and plastic glasses with small, tinkly ice would be set down with a familiar clink. I could see the white hats of the fry cooks in back, fatty smells from the grill setting our taste buds to tingling.
On nearly every drive, vacation and road trip since, I’ve sought out these types of places. They beckon me with their small, cheery windows and lettered glass claiming “Best Coffee in the U.S.A.” I need to see if it really is the best coffee, no matter how many times and places it claims to be so.
I am an omelette aficionado: three eggs, sausage or ham, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, peppers, and cheese. I ate my way through a road trip to New England one May, trying every combination of omelette I could find.
My husband would chuckle as I spotted yet another tiny slice of a dive sandwiched between the watch shop and T.V. repair place, and we would find our spot in a cracked vinyl chair as I perused the omelette selections. I learned a lot about what people think is the best sausage for an omelette. I prefer a slightly spicy country sausage, crumbled to perfection. I dislike an Italian-style sausage in my eggs as it changes the flavor completely.
The air is clear and present in these portions of the country. Small restaurants make up the backbone of a community, and though not every thought and view might be represented in the local morning culture, you can glean a lot about it the way you’re greeted when entering.
I can look past a chilly greeting if the food is on point and the service is good; sometimes people need a smile to warm up their soul.
On a trip out West long ago, we followed old Route 66. The kids were small, and our Voyager van was a new-to-us luxury. I was in my glory with the plethora of kitschy stops and food joints, not to mention the funky motels we chose along the way.
Yes, I did try to stay at the famous teepee motel, but they were closed for repairs.
I ate my way through the Southwest that time, ordering breakfast enchiladas and plates full of huevos rancheros. The beans, oh the beans, were to die for with their creamy bacon-y flavor. It was enough to make you cry.
In my heart of hearts it’s not about what a restaurant looks like on the outside. The windows could be glazed with age and the booths all a kilter, pendant lights from the ‘60s luminously spreading their cheer as they have for so long.
I imagine them to know many secrets as they shone their light on people: pretty love talk and breakups, parents scolding their children to sit up straight and eat their fries before they get cold.
I can see cups of coffee growing cold as bereft lovers mourned each other and dynamic meetings where agreements and work were hashed out, success and loss gathered in one spot.
I’ve uncovered and dined in many cafes spread throughout Ohio, our own small spots in Holmes County included. Just like their greeting upon entering, you can tell a lot about a place by how silky and rich their sausage gravy is or perhaps how fluffy the eggs are.
Maybe it’s the ambiance, and maybe it’s the slightly askew front door that doesn’t close all the way, the rich orange color of the booths that suggest a time gone by that can no longer be grasped.
The food can take you there, whether the walls are a stylish gray or something from the past that grabs you by the tip of your heart. For me, the omelette will always tell the story.